


it's only a thought crime

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Depression, Future Fic, Mental Health Issues, Other, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, no one dies, no one will die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: It's one question in a mental health chat, and no one knows it's Stiles. Once he starts to answer, though, it's like the floodgates open into the darkest recesses of his mind.





	it's only a thought crime

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a question pass by, I think on Twitter, the other day, and it got stuck in my head. This story is a direct outgrowth of seeing that question. This is not an MCD fic. It's about asking questions, about talking, and about understanding and finding a path to healing.

_What’s the one thing you wish people talked about more with regards to mental health and suicide._

Stiles sits with his fingers hovering above the keyboard, wiggling in the air as if he types on keys he cannot reach. He has thoughts. Thoughts that he’s not sure he wants to put into words, even here, on this mental health chat where no one knows his name. It’s not like he even picked a typical username. He’s not lax24 or MetsRule or anything else he might consider that could possibly be traced back in any way to himself. He’s Mike365, which is, yes, a play on his real name, but it’s not something anyone would look at and think _Stiles_.

This place is safe.

Still.

It’s hard to actually say something, even in a group mental health chat with a question posed for the day that’s inviting him to say something. That’s inviting him to dig into the darkest parts of his brain.

He lowers his hands slowly, strokes fingertips across the keys.

 _I don’t want to die again,_ he writes. _I died once, and I don’t want to go back there. But even though I am honestly terrified of dying, I still think about suicide. All the time. And that’s something I think people need to talk about, that thoughts of suicide and acting on it aren’t at all the same thing._

Now that he’s warmed up, he doesn’t feel like he can stop.

_I wake up in the morning and sometimes it’s okay, but by the end of breakfast, everything is weighing on me. It gets harder and harder to stand up straight as the day goes on, and people just keep piling more shit on my shoulders, and I feel like I’m bent in half. And I just want it to stop. I want the world to be quiet. I want one person to listen to me and value my opinion. I want to relax. I want to let go._

_I want to stop being, but I don’t want to die._

_I don’t think I could ever commit suicide. I know what it’s like to feel a knife go into flesh, I know what it’s like to see someone’s brains blown out close enough to spatter blood on my face. I know what it feels like to fall into cold water, to inhale it into my lungs until there’s no room left for air. I know what it feels like to die._

_But at the same time, I get why people go there, why they think it would help. Because I might not want to die, but I want to feel the silence, to find that moment’s peace where everything just ends._

_And I bet I’m not the only one_.

It’s silent in the chat for a long moment, then SassyUnicorn writes, _I don’t want to die, but I feel myself dying, sometimes._

This time it takes no effort; Stiles types the words as easy as breathing. _Yes, that, too. Like pieces of my body are rotting on the inside, where no one can see._

It happens at random times during the day, when he stretches and just knows that there’s a black blot on the inside, that a piece of himself has gone offline, turned to dust and disappeared.

It’s not real.

He tells himself that it’s a hallucination, an ideation. It hasn’t actually happened.

And yet.

 _And yet_.

He feels it, feels his body breaking down around him, and he wonders what it would be like if it were to simply stop somewhere between Hamilton Hall and the Rowling building. He wonders if people can see, if that’s why they give him a wide berth, as if they can’t bear to come close to him.

Breath hitches in his throat, pain twisting in his chest. Lungs are too tight, and he forces himself to inhale.

It’s not real. He’s not dying.

But he could. If he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

He’s not ready to go.

There’s a knock at the door, and Stiles slams his laptop closed, spins in the chair fast enough that papers rustle off his desk and flutter onto the floor. “Scott—” He stops, stares. “Not Scott.”

“Not Scott,” Derek agrees, stepping inside slowly. “The door was unlocked.”

“Yeah. Scott and I don’t lock it unless we’re out or sleeping.” Stiles goes to stand, sits again when Derek motions for him to do so and takes Scott’s chair for himself. “What are you doing here?”

“Scott said you were having a rough semester.”

Stiles laughs awkwardly, pushes a hand through his hair. _I want one person to listen to me._ He exhales in a rush. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that. I just….”

Derek scoots his chair closer, ends up knee to knee with Stiles. “Senior year is tough.”

This time the laugh is short and sharp, barking out. “What do you know?”

“I graduated from NYU,” Derek says dryly. “Did you think I lived on the streets when I was in New York?”

Stiles jerks back, twists so that they are no longer touching. “Didn’t really spend that much time dwelling on it,” he mutters. He flinches as Derek touches his shoulder, and Derek pulls back without saying a word.

For some reason, that’s what makes tears prick at the corners of Stiles’s eyes, and he rubs roughly at them, trying to scrub the evidence away.

“You’re not all right,” Derek says quietly.

“Oh, and you’re so well put together yourself,” Stiles snarks.

“Takes one broken person to recognize another.”

The words are quiet. Simple. Stiles hiccups instead of responding, grabs a tissue and wipes his nose. “Fuck,” he mutters.

No response.

When Stiles turns back to face Derek, he’s still sitting there, hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees as he watches Stiles. Derek arches one eyebrow, tilts his head, and breath shudders out of Stiles like a punch to the chest.

“After—” Stiles doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know which time to reference, which horrible thing to bring up. He raises his hand, palm up, fingers toward Derek’s chest. “After—”

“What?” Derek asks quietly.

“Did you ever feel like it just got to be too much?” Stiles twists his fingers together, leans forward, matches Derek’s pose with his elbows on his knees. He keeps his head up, keeps his gaze locked with Derek’s as if it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning. “Did you ever feel like everything you did was wrong, like every time you took one step forward, someone shoved you three steps back? Like you’d made every mistake in the world, and even though you’d already paid for it, you knew you still had to pay some more? And like… like….”

“Like you just needed it to stop for a while?” Derek says, and Stiles nods.

“Or like if you stop trying, if you stop for even one second, it’s all going to crumble and stop whether you like it or not,” Stiles says quietly.

“My therapist—” Derek cuts off, gives Stiles a wary look.

“I’m glad you’re seeing a therapist,” Stiles says, gesturing for him to continue.

“She gave me a questionnaire the first time we met, and one of the questions she asked was _do you think about death and how often_ and I almost didn’t answer it,” Derek tells him. “Because I thought about all the time. For myself. For other people.”

“Like seeing the grim reaper standing behind someone you love,” Stiles interjects, and Derek nods.

“Exactly like that.”

It’s one of those moments where everything hangs in the balance. Where Stiles can clearly see the precipice that he stands upon, and where each way down will take him. And he realizes that there is one good way off this cliff right now, one rope being offered. A hand waiting to take him to safety.

Stiles turns around, opens his laptop. The chat quickly scrolls with more comments, all chiming in on the part of the discussion that began with his statements. He takes a moment to read them, aware that Derek could be reading over his shoulder.

Then he scrolls back up to the start. To the question and his answer. And he turns the laptop around, deliberately shows it to Derek, who skims it, eyes skipping across the words and taking them in.

When he’s done, Derek closes the laptop, hands it back to Stiles and waits for him to set it down. Derek’s still sitting there, but he has one hand out, palm up, bridging the distance between them.

“It took me a long time,” Derek says slowly, “but I found the silence. You don’t have to die to get there. But I understand where you are. And how it feels. I get it. And if you want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

It feels like moving through jello to reach for him, to lay his hand atop Derek’s. Skin is surprisingly warm, and Stiles curls his fingers, holds on tighter than he means to, once he’s there.

“Stiles?”

He swallows hard, meets Derek’s gaze. “It’s not easy to find words,” Stiles admits, “but you probably know that. But I’m willing to try. And… thank you.”

Derek squeezes his hand lightly. “Everyone needs an anchor.”

An anchor. Something to keep the water from rising over his head, dragging him down. Something to keep the current from pulling Stiles under, stealing him away.

Stiles licks his lips, ducks his gaze and tries to find the words. When he lifts his head, Derek is waiting quietly.

“I don’t want to die,” Stiles says softly. “But I think about death all the time. And it scares me.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my reblogs and ramblings [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) and my original writing at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com). Thank you for reading!


End file.
